


Life In Color

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Hikaru no Go
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Competition, Inline with canon, M/M, Rivalry, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 16:28:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17186432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "It’s something like Akira imagines color must be, to those who can see it; and it’s that, too, that makes the simple black-and-white of the stones under his fingers such a comfort." Akira has long since given up the search for the color that follows the meeting of his soulmate in exchange for the pattern of the Go board, but fate has more than monochrome in store for him.





	1. Tint

Akira likes playing Go.

It helps that he’s good at it. Whether from the encouragement of his stoic father’s implicit approval or a natural tendency, he’s shown an interest in and aptitude for the game since he was old enough to grasp the basic concepts of rules and strategy, and he has had more than enough reason to pursue this same ability as the years collected to grant him experience as well as instinct. Akira likes the rhythm of the game, likes the feel of the stones at his fingers and the sound of the pieces clicking against the board; and he likes the simplicity of it, the basic rules that combine to make something of impossible beauty from the intricacies of which it is made. It’s something like Akira imagines color must be, to those who can see it; and it’s that, too, that makes the simple black-and-white of the stones under his fingers such a comfort.

It’s not as if he’s particularly old to have not yet met his soulmate. Akira knows of people who made it into middle school and even past their high school graduation with their vision still limited to the monochrome that is all he has ever known for his own sight; with all the people in the world one can hardly expect to grow up alongside one’s soulmate, as a rule. But Akira remembers the array of visits when he was very young, the outings his mother took him to when his father wasn’t teaching him Go, remembers the hopeful questions she would ask afterwards that Akira could never respond to with anything but disappointment.

He understands better when he’s older. It’s a simple trick, to gather several likely children together and hope that a pair of them will turn out to find their match before they have even begun kindergarten. Many of the children that Akira spent time with found their pairs that way, children of similarly upper-class families with as much honor to bestow upon their match as the color that slowly accumulates with every hour one spends with their soulmate. But however many childhood betrothals Akira was party to none of them were ever his own, no matter how far away from his hometown his mother took him. Akira’s soulmate is at some impossible distance from him, or moving in different circles than those in which his mother places him, and when she finally gives over her efforts with a brave smile that still doesn’t manage to entirely hide her resignation Akira ducks his head and fixes his attention on the simplicity of a Go board, where the greys of his vision won’t cast so much of a shadow on his mother’s dashed hopes for him.

It becomes less of a concern as he grows older. When he’s very young his mother’s efforts make him uncomfortably well-known, an effect that takes a few years to dissipate, but Akira isn’t the only child to begin elementary school unmatched, and it’s not as if it truly affects his day-to-day life. Akira’s vision is clear enough, even if it lacks the vivid saturation he sometimes hears others speaking of with starstruck awe, and it’s not as if he can miss something he has never known for himself. Enough to find a pattern to his life, to fit himself into the shape of the existence that he has now without worrying about the future, and to turn his attention to the patterns on the _goban_ that never lead him astray.

It’s the comfort of a few games that Akira goes seeking, one windy afternoon in early autumn, while the grey of the leaves overhead are rustling into movement as eye-catching as the flutter of the wings of thousands of birds in the tree branches overhead. The Go salon is warm, dim-lit and filled with a peace that Akira feels in the very marrow of his bones as soon as he steps through the door, until he feels himself breathing more deeply with every inhale, feels himself relaxing into comfort with every step forward he takes. He adopts his usual position around the corner from the close-clustered tables, where conversation sometimes forms over the shape of the stones atop the surface and the acquaintances that gather to play over them; his mood is better suited to silence, today, voicelessness with nothing but the distant rustling of leaves on pavement outside and the louder _click_ of stones falling into the pattern that will decide the victor and defeated with an artistry all their own.

It’s a stranger who ends up sitting across the table from Akira. He’s younger than most of the other players, no older than Akira himself; his hair is tousled by the wind and marked with pale stripes at the front, so light they look white to Akira’s monochrome vision. His eyes are wide and bright, almost sparkling as they catch illumination for themselves; Akira finds himself wondering what they might look like to his mother’s vision, or his father’s, to the eyes of someone who has laid claim to the spectrum of color that fate has thus far denied Akira himself. The thought is an uncomfortable one, unfamiliar and distracting, and Akira finds himself frowning as he offers a dish of stones across the table to the stranger, who introduces himself as Shindou Hikaru before reaching into the heap of stones at his side with as much inelegance as if he’s never touched them before.

It’s not just his handling of the dish that is clumsy. Hikaru holds the stones as he might a pebble, or as a young child might struggle with gripping a pen: caught at the tips of his fingers, all his attention turned to the task of picking them up rather than taking advantage of the natural balance point at the highest curve of the stone. It makes Akira flinch, although he keeps his head ducked forward to let his hair shadow over his reaction, and as he reaches to place his own stone he resigns himself to a game as soon won as it is played. Hikaru is caught up in his own pride, to refuse the handicap Akira offered him before they began even when he has such clearly limited experience; the only real question left, Akira thinks as Hikaru sets another stone and leaves him to his turn, is whether he himself is gentle or cruel in unburdening his opponent of his unjustified ego.

Akira is only allowed to contemplate the question for the span of a few moves. That’s how long it takes for him to see the shape of the game forming before him, constructing itself from the pattern of his white stones and Hikaru’s black ones, the vivid structure of light and shadow as familiar to Akira as breathing. Hikaru holds the stones with clumsy force, bearing an awkward self-consciousness in his grip that is nearly painful to watch, but his moves are that of a master, they show a sense of strategy and precision that leaves Akira breathless even with his own not-insignificant experience. It’s a mismatch that Akira can’t explain any more than he can give a reason for the dated style of Hikaru’s play, or the odd hesitation he offer sometimes, even when contemplating a move that deserves no more than a standard response. Akira finds himself frowning at the board before him, his forehead creasing and lips setting tight as he watches the pattern of illumination build itself before him, as he tries to make out the shape of Shindou Hikaru from the geometric pattern of the stones laid out on the board before him.

He’s still staring at the board, still trying to unravel the mystery of that clumsy grip and those elegant actions, when Hikaru reaches out all the way across _goban_ , stretching over the pattern they have already laid between them to set his piece deep on Akira’s side. It’s an aggressive move, demanding a response from Akira himself as clearly as if Hikaru had shouted, but it’s not that that tenses Akira’s shoulders and strips his breath from his lungs. Hikaru drops the stone with unselfconscious comfort, with the same almost thoughtless inattention he gave to every other move he’s made so far, but if Hikaru was prideful in refusing Akira’s handicap he is haughty, now, claiming his dominance with as much ease as if the near-insult of his move has no underlying meaning at all beyond the simplicity it seems to be, of a Go stone clattering onto the _goban_ between them. It’s not the strongest move -- Akira has other strategies unfolding at other points on the board, other advantages that Hikaru would do better to resist. Nor is it the best. Akira can see better at a glance, rising up from the pattern before him as if pleading their worth; and yet Hikaru disregards the advantage he must see as clearly as Akira does himself, to be playing at the level he is, and forces Akira into a different battle, as if the results of the others are trivial.

Akira knows this feeling, remembers it from hundreds of games played with his father’s focused frown on the other side of the _goban_ , when his own position was shored up by a starting handicap of his own. He’s being tested, as if Hikaru is reaching to seek for a weakness, to ask Akira how he will react, what he will do. It’s an absurd thing to do for someone at his same level, as Hikaru claimed to be in his rejection of Akira’s offered handicap; it’s the kind of thing Akira has only ever experienced in training, that sense of having his strategy almost toyed with by someone impossibly beyond him in experience. He can feel the blood drain from his face, can feel his hands curl to fists in his lap; it’s only years of practice that give him the composure to unravel his tension, that grants him the self-respect to go on playing against this boy who holds the stones like a novice and plays with Akira’s strategies rather than Akira himself.

Akira loses, in the end. Hikaru is flippant about his victory, sounding almost surprised when he exclaims “Is that it?” from the other side of the table. Akira can’t even stand to look at him, can’t bear to lift his head and meet his opponent’s eyes; it seems impossible to look Hikaru in the face now, now that Akira can feel the true distance between their abilities as an endless chasm between them. Hikaru gets to his feet, departing with a farewell as comfortable as the greeting he gave upon his arrival, and Akira is left to stare at the _goban_ in silence, tracing the pattern of the stones before him over and over while his mind loops over every motion of Hikaru’s tight-pressed fingers, every clatter of a stone clumsily dropped into a perfect strategy. He doesn’t hear the laughter around him dissolve into shocked murmurs as his assumed victory is overturned as the sham it is; he hardly hears the voices exclaiming over the result and claiming the win for Akira himself, after the point adjustment. Akira doesn’t understand how they can’t see it from the board itself, how they can’t read the reality before them as clearly as words on paper: Akira outmatched, Akira outplayed, his best strategy seen through and explored by an opponent so good he was unconcerned with the trivial satisfaction of victory. Akira can’t make sense of it, can’t reconcile the easygoing appearance of the boy who sat across from him and the polished, fluid grace of the Go he played; and it’s then that a voice cuts through his haze, shock more clear on the words than the characteristics of the speaker themself.

“But he said today was his first competition…”

Akira’s breath spills from his lungs. “His...first...competition?” His body moves without his intention, his legs working to surge him to his feet as he turns a wide-open stare on the face of the speaker, the young woman who takes the entry fee at the front door. She’s staring at Akira, her hand lifted towards her mouth as if she’s flinching sympathy at the impact of his loss, but it’s not despair Akira is feeling any more than disappointment, even with his loss laid out in black-and-white on the board behind him. The whole of his mind is filled with ringing disbelief, shock made into clarity of its own just for the immediacy of its impact as he turns his head away from the concern in the faces around him to look out after the absence left by the departure of Shindou Hikaru and the contradictions contained within him. “What kind of person is he?”

“Don’t worry about it, Akira-kun.” That’s from the woman again; she comes forward with one hand extended as if to press to Akira’s shoulder and urge him into comfort for the assumed pain Akira doesn’t feel. “I’m sure it was just beginner’s luck.” She hesitates, her hand outstretched into midair, before she retreats back, her forehead creasing on concern. “Akira-kun?”

It’s then that Akira realizes he’s staring. It’s not that there’s anything surprising about the woman herself, not as if anything has changed in the familiar lines of her face or the soft concern set into the corners of her eyes. But there’s something against the curve of her hair, usually such a uniform shadow, the suggestion of something he’s never seen before, and against her shirt, too, the two shades that have been indistinguishable before this moment separated, now, by something new, barely-there but flickering into Akira’s vision with every motion of his lashes. Akira stares for a moment, pulling apart the distinction out of the possibility of a trick of the light, pinning it down into his memory for what it is; and then he shakes his head, and he ducks his gaze to fix on the dark of the floor instead.

“It’s nothing,” he says to the shadows around him. “My apologies. I’m fine.”

Even with his head down, the darkness seems to shimmer with the first whisper of color that Akira’s eyes have ever known.


	2. Hue

By the time the day of the tournament arrives, Akira can hardly focus on the match in front of him.

He’s been waiting for this for a long time. Anticipation has kept him abrupt to the point of rudeness with his classmates and fellow club members, has brought out an edge of tension in him that he didn’t know he had. Akira has always valued restraint, calm composure and polite respect with all those he interacts with, but he’s been carrying this strain too long to manage with any kind of grace, and the danger of having his chance stripped from him keeps him at the cusp of panic all the way through the tournament. He throws over all his façade of composure in exchange for the third seat on the Kaio team, insults and demands and forces his way into the position he needs to be in, and even when the day itself comes all he can feel is relief that he has done what he needed to do to face Shindou Hikaru across the span of a _goban_ once more. The matches slide past, the hum of conversation and click of the stones a backdrop for the whirl of Akira’s thoughts; it’s all irrelevant, as unimportant as the pattern of the games before him. He’s just passing the time, just moving himself forward through his life and through this day to bring himself closer to that opportunity, that outcome that he has been trembling for with what seems the whole of his life.

Hikaru looks different from across the span of the table. Akira can see flickers of color in him, now, can make out the suggestion of what he has learned to name yellow from what was once untouched grey streaking the front of Hikaru’s dark hair, and there’s a kind of warmth under his skin, like there’s the hint of life rising from his veins to melt through the monochrome that Akira spent so many years holding to. There’s a weight to that too, a question that Akira craves the answer to almost as much as he wants the result of this match; but the one will solve the other, will illuminate both points as surely as either, and right now all Akira can feel is a relief so keen it stalls his breathing and gasps in his lungs. Hikaru ducks his head forward, falling into the rhythm of habit as he offers Akira a “Good luck”; and Akira speaks atop him, throwing over even this last vestige of politeness in exchange for a sincerity so keen he feels he must speak it or die on the spot.

“ _Finally_.” His voice tears over the word, straining it to an expression of all the time that has dragged itself past, of all the tension that has saturated his life and strained his nerves to the breaking point. Hikaru’s gaze jerks up, his eyes wide and shocked as he meets Akira’s, but Akira doesn’t flinch back, doesn’t look away. There’s something in Hikaru’s eyes, a flicker of illumination Akira can’t see well enough to name; it makes his heart clench, makes his face flush. “Finally, I can play against you.”

Hikaru doesn’t speak to respond to this. Akira doesn’t know what he would say, doesn’t know how he would respond if the other found words for himself. Hikaru looks more nervous than anything else, as if he’s feeling the tension radiating off Akira himself as a pressure bearing down against him, but Akira can’t find it in him to care. After everything he has gone through, after everything it has cost him just to lay claim to this one opportunity, this one chance, he’s well beyond the point of caring about propriety or reason. Enough to have Hikaru before him at last, and the span of a _goban_ filling the space between them with the outline of an offer, and the dish of stones set to the right of either of them. Akira reaches out for the lid of his container of stones, lifting it free as he considers the possibilities of the board before him; and his fingers tremor, his grip gives way, and the lid slides from his grasp to clatter to the floor alongside him.

Akira can’t even reach to pick it back up for a moment. The shock is too great, that sense of his own body betraying him in this most simple of motions; he has to stare at the lid on the floor before he even realizes what he’s done, that he’s dropped the minor weight of the wood as a giveaway for his own nervousness. He feels dizzy, lightheaded on adrenaline; even when he braces himself at the edge of the table with his other hand so he can lean down and pick up the lid it takes surprising effort just to close his grip against the edge to lift it. Gravity seems to wobble, trembling beneath him as if it’s trying to wrest the wood free of his hold or just drop him to the floor outright; even when Akira returns the lid to the table he finds it clattering at the surface, rattling to an audible giveaway of the anticipation painting itself clear in the tremor of his fingers. He sets his jaw and stares at the table, fixing his gaze on the smooth surface and willing his hand to steady, willing his heart to slow, but there is no change, no easing of the tension in him. Finally he lets the lid drop, giving over his failed attempt at calming himself so he can draw his hand back to the far side of the table again. He ducks his head forward, fills his lungs with a careful inhale, and holds it, pressing his awareness of the moment into the quiver of expectation running through his body. He’s here, at the tournament, sitting at the table where he will finally play Shindou Hikaru once more. There is nothing to stand in his way, nothing that will stop the conclusion of this match that he’s been framing and reframing in his head for what feels like a lifetime; and he breathes out a shudder of relief, and feels some measure of his tension drain away with it.

“Good luck.” Akira can taste sincerity on the words, even with his whole chest aching with the thrum of anticipation, and then the game begins.

Akira doesn’t look at Hikaru. It’s easier to bear if he keeps his eyes on the board, if he focuses himself on the simple black-and-white pattern forming itself before him: the one thing that hasn’t changed, the one part of his existence that has gone untouched by any part of the transcendent force of Shindou Hikaru entering into his life. Akira has been haunted by the memory of the game they played, has seen the evidence of Hikaru’s presence layering itself into the suggestion of color under everything he looks at; but his Go is the same, still his own, as clearly separated from Hikaru as the shading of their stones can make it. Hikaru moves, setting his pieces with intent, now, with a focus that he lacked at their first meeting; but Akira recognizes the style lying beneath the placement of the stones and the care of Hikaru’s movements, and he has spent hours imagining this game. He moves quickly, ready with a response to every move Hikaru makes, and the match unfolds before them like the structure of a conversation, a dialogue writing itself onto the pattern of the _goban_ before them as clear for Akira to read as if the stones are words on a page.

There’s a rhythm to the game. Akira can feel it settling around them, a pattern to the set of their stones and the reach of their hands; there’s an expectation to it, an anticipation on both their parts that lets them respond as rapidly as the other’s motion is made. Akira can feel his heart beating the faster with it, feels himself caught up in the rising tension forming between them; and then he places a stone, and Hikaru hesitates, stalled to stillness at the other side of the board.

Akira looks up. Hikaru is staring at the board, his forehead creased and his mouth set on consideration; the effort of thought is clear in his face, even with his fingers yet reaching for the stone for his next move. He frowns at the board, tipping his head like he’s surprised by something that has formed out of the pattern before him; and then he lifts his hand from his dish of stones and rocks back in his chair, folding his arms as he goes on staring at the move Akira has just made. Akira’s heart skips, his breathing rises taut on satisfied pride, and when he speaks the words come unstructured, with no more intention on them than the pleasure of achieving a long-desired goal.

“Have I improved a little?” Akira doesn’t mean the words to sound as self-satisfied as they do; that’s a function of the pressure at his chest, the strain against his breathing that makes it difficult even to fill his lungs with air enough to speak at all. There’s nothing he can do to ease his tone, no way he can collect himself enough to speak with anything like a normal tone, and Hikaru doesn’t seem to notice in any case. He just sighs, huffing air through his nose as he goes on frowning at the board. Akira watches him, picking out the faint suggestion of color from Hikaru’s hair, feeling his whole body tremble with the anticipation of Hikaru’s response, with excitement for the conclusion of their game, with adrenaline for the shift of shadows he imagines he can see gaining clarity with every shift of his lashes, with every breath past Hikaru’s lips.

“You’ve changed as well.” Akira means the words as a compliment, something to bridge the gap of straining pressure between the two of them, but they come out just as strange and taut as his own rhetorical question. “You hold your stones correctly now.”

Hikaru glances up at Akira. The shift of his attention makes Akira feel like gravity is swinging out from under his feet to send him into a freefall. “My stones?” There’s clarity in his gaze, something bright flickering behind his eyes; Akira can only stand to meet his attention for a moment before he looks back down to the board, struggling to find ground under his feet when he feels like everything around him is coming unfastened to swing loose of his grip. There’s a comfort to the pattern before him, a regularity to the grid of the _goban_ and the curve of the stones pressing against each other; Akira fixes his attention to that, tracing out the lines across the board with his gaze and evening his breath to as deliberate a pattern. He can feel his heartbeat easing, can feel his breathing loosening from the clenched-fist pressure all around his ribcage; he goes on breathing, focusing his mind on the rhythm of adrenaline in his veins instead of on the board while he waits for Hikaru to make his decision.

Finally Hikaru makes his move. His arm stretches out over the space between them, reaching over the pattern of the stones laid out to press a piece into an open space closer to Akira’s side than his own. Akira feels the _click_ of the stone landing like a jolt down the whole of his spine, electricity flooding through his body to rock him back in his chair as he stares wide-eyed at the _goban_ before him. He hadn’t expected Hikaru to move there, hadn’t even considered it as a possibility when he was contemplating the other’s actions; for a moment he’s as startled as if Hikaru has morphed into someone entirely different, as if he had looked up to find an utter stranger sitting across the _goban_ from him instead of the boy who has haunted Akira’s thoughts and games ever since that fateful match.

 _This is_ … Akira blinks hard, frowning at the layout of the stones before him as if he’s turned the page to find an entirely different story than the one he had been reading. _It surprised me for a second but this is…_ It’s a weak move, imperfect and flawed like a jewel still rough from the earth; it lacks the brilliant polish that Hikaru has shown so far, is absent all the signs of well-worn experience that have shone under every other move Akira has ever seen him make. Akira frowns harder at the board, struggling to frame what he’s seeing in some way that makes any kind of sense at all. _Or is there something else?_ Is he missing something, is Hikaru really so impossibly far above him as to have some intention to this move that Akira can’t discern? But even then, to move here, at this point; Akira reaches for a stone without looking, setting his response onto place against the _goban_ as if asking a question, as if demanding clarification from the illogic Hikaru has just offered him.

There isn’t any. Hikaru goes on playing, faster now, without that long delay of consideration that came before his startling act; but Akira recognizes nothing of the play before him, sees none of the grace that was there before. Hikaru’s moves are clumsy, struggling things, strategies that die half-formed under the force of Akira’s responses; it’s as if all the skill that Hikaru carried with such impossible ease before has evaporated to leave him no more than the child he appears. Akira keeps glancing at him as his frustration increases, as every move comes as if that of a stranger; but the lines of that face haven’t changed, even as Akira wishes for the madness of such. It would be a relief to see a stranger across from him, to see a face other than that which has haunted Akira’s play ever since first setting eyes on it; but there is no reprieve, no explanation, nothing but Hikaru across the board and something utterly unlike the Go that Akira has dreamed of facing forming between them. Hikaru is playing like a novice, his moves making a mockery of the effort Akira has put in, the time Akira has spent thinking of and about him, until finally the pressure is too much, and the _click_ of Hikaru setting a stone into place snaps Akira’s patience asunder.

Akira doesn’t think of moving. There is no thought in him; the motion is immediate, a reflexive response to the anger boiling through his veins and clouding his vision. His legs flex, his chair skids back; when his palms hit the edge of the table it’s hard enough that he can hear the Go stones rattle in their dishes. “ _Stop messing around!_ ”

Hikaru’s head jerks up, his attention forced onto Akira by the insistence on the other’s voice. Akira doesn’t look at him, doesn’t lift his gaze from the span of the game half-played between them. He can feel the heat of anger burning pressure at the backs of his eyes. “T-touya…”

There’s another shout of Akira’s name, with more judgment on it than the tremor of alarm Hikaru has managed, but Akira doesn’t turn to that either. He doesn’t want to see his advisor any more than he wants to see Hikaru’s expression, any more than he wants to see the shimmer of color in everything around him to remind him of his own foolishness, of the time he has wasted in hope and effort that is now being thrown back full in his face.

On the other side of the table Hikaru rallies, pulling himself together into enough composure to at least offer speech, however unwilling he may be to offer anything else. “I’m not messing around!”

Akira wants to slap him. It’s adding insult to injury, to have Hikaru sound so sincere in his denial when Akira can see the proof of exactly that mockery laid out in the pattern of the stones before him. After all this time, after everything Akira has done and everything he has given up for this one chance, for this one opportunity, Hikaru dangles what he wants in front of him like a taunt before pulling it back, refusing to give Akira even the satisfaction of a single true game. Akira’s eyes are burning, his vision hazing as if tears are trying to roll him back to the monochrome that used to limit the span of his life, and it’s then that a hand comes down at his shoulder, the weight enough to force his attention to something other than the board before him and the boy sitting across the table.

“Touya. Play to the end. Either that or resign.” The words are reasonable, level and as quiet as they can be while still holding Akira’s attention. Akira wishes he could block them out along with the clarity of his vision. “I told you you’d know once you played him.”

Akira sets his jaw, clenching his teeth so tightly together he can feel the ache all down the sides of his neck. He wants to protest, wants to shove that restraining hand away, wants to turn and stalk out of this claustrophobic room and leave this game and his disappointment and Shindou Hikaru behind him forever. But there is a room full of people around him, however much he may wish to ignore them; and with all his hopes dashed against the pattern of those stones Akira is done with sacrificing his composure for a futile cause. He tightens his jaw, feels his teeth hurt with the pressure against them; and then he lowers himself to sit in his chair again, to set himself across the table from Hikaru. He can feel Hikaru’s eyes on him but he doesn’t look up, just reaches for one of his pieces to snap it onto the board with more force than the movement demands.

“Damn it!” Akira hisses, and reaches without looking to slam the button down on his side of the play clock.

He doesn’t look back up. It’s easier to keep his focus on the board before him, easier to fix his tear-hot gaze on the black-and-white of the pieces spread out across the table; the monochrome is safe, stable, a fixed point for him to tie himself to as he slams down Go stones as if they’re blows in a fist fight and presses the button on the timer with force enough that he half-expects the plastic to crack. It does nothing to ease his temper, does nothing to smooth the grind of his teeth pressing together to hold back the sob trying to wrest itself free of his throat, until by the time Hikaru pauses in his response Akira hates him just for the delay in the opportunity for him to write his own fury in the pace of his whip-quick responses to the clumsy predictability of Hikaru’s motions. There’s the sound of stones sliding over each other as Hikaru hesitates, his fingers at the lip of his dish of pieces; and then a _click_ as he lets go, and draws his hand back, and Akira can feel his whole body strain on tension as Hikaru takes a breath to murmur words as soft as an apology. “I resign.”

Akira lurches to his feet. He wants to be free, wants to be out of here, wants to never see Hikaru again; but that hand grabs at his shoulder again, fingers digging into the pressure of a warning even before the edge on his name, “Touya!” sharp with the judgment Akira can’t care about, even knowing he deserves it. But that hand is there, that grip too tight to break free from; so he shifts, turning away from his straight-line focus on escape to sit back at the edge of his chair with his whole body trembling with furious hurt.

“Thanks for the game.” Akira hears his words echo against the roaring pressure in his ears; he wonders if they sound as flat and forced to Hikaru as they feel to him.

Even with the seaside roar of his rushing heartbeat deafening his hearing, Akira can hear the catch on the breath Hikaru takes before he speaks. “Thanks for the game.” The words are gentle, almost apologetic, but Akira doesn’t look up to see what expression might be laid out across the other’s face. He just reaches across the board to drag his pieces free of the pattern they are laid into, to tear apart the tapestry of the game they’ve just played and return the pieces to the uniform pool in which they began.

Hikaru is more careful in his actions, hesitant to reach out like he’s afraid of so much as brushing Akira’s skin with his own. Akira has freed all his pieces before Hikaru has even collected half of his, is setting the lid on his stones dish and reaching out to set it hard at the edge of the _goban_ while the board remains littered with black. There is no resistance when Akira gets to his feet this time, no hand reaching out to catch and hold him where he is; he turns to the door without obstruction, with nothing to halt his stride forward and out of the room, before he pauses, his gaze fixed on the door and his breath knotted tight as a fist in his chest.

“I thought…” His voice trembles in his throat. Akira can taste the edge of tears on his tongue, can feel the heat at his eyes burning at the cusp of spilling free to course down his cheeks. “I thought I saw the Hand of God in you.” It’s a confession, a betrayal, an accusation; Akira can feel the weight of the words on his tongue as if they are the final moves of a game resigned rather than won.

He doesn’t wait for an answer. It’s easier to walk forward, to stride past the rows of tables and the staring eyes filled with judgment or pity or confusion, all alike to Akira in the moment, until he can free himself into the quiet of the hallway. It’s easier in the silence, easier with no audience for the strain of his breathing starting to hiccup on misery in his chest; and easier in the clean white walls, where the blur of Akira’s tears can hide the radiance of colors lifted to greater clarity than he has ever before known.

If he could choose, he would give it all up for the simplicity of his old monochrome again.


	3. Dye

Akira knows who the stranger playing on the Net is.

He can’t explain it. He doesn’t want to explain it, to himself or to Ogata or to any of the tournament competitors lingering in a semicircle to gossip about this mysterious pro who has emerged from the shadows of the Internet, who is beating Korean players, who only appears during the free period that would belong to a child of Akira’s own age. When Ogata looks to him Akira denies the connection, pushing it away with a clear refusal born from the disappointment of his match at Kaio, from the bitter gall of tears sticking in the back of his throat to choke his words to fractured pain even as he used them to push Hikaru away, to reject the connection between them even as he saw the proof of it blooming across the tear-blurred haze of his vision. But all the words in the world can’t undo the color flickering over his sight, now, glittering like a secret tucked into the shadows that used to be all he could see, and Akira feels the same tremor in him at the mention of this mysterious _sai_ as he did in the Kaio tournament, and he knows.

He’s the one who steps forward when the computer is brought out. There is no discussion, no overt acknowledgment of his action; but Akira knows, and when he comes forward no one protests. It’s as if they can see the illumination clinging to him too, as if the brightening of color seeping into his world is visible to them as clearly as it is to Akira; the thought tightens at his shoulders and tenses against his chest, but he doesn’t speak to acknowledge it any more than he admitted the truth of his suspicions when Ogata asked him directly. He just steps forward, shoulders back and chin up and tension thrumming in every part of his body to take the seat drawn up in front of the laptop as if it’s his by right.

Ogata doesn’t comment on Akira’s action. Akira wonders, sometimes, how much Ogata knows, how much he suspects; but whatever he suspects he keeps to himself, as unvoiced now as ever as he leans in over Akira’s shoulder towards the flicker of the computer screen. “Sai may be there. I’d like you to check.”

Akira sets his fingers against the touchpad of the computer to scroll down through the list of players. Their names span all possible options, given names and Internet handles and a scope of languages as broad as the nationalities indicated with the abbreviation alongside the user; but Akira’s fingers carry him down the list with easy speed, as if he knows what he’s looking for, and when his gaze drops to the name printed in clear black against the light background he would swear he can feel his heart skip, can feel his vision flicker as if with a moment of illumination breaking out over his attention.

Akira doesn’t catch his breath, doesn’t press a hand to his mouth. He just keeps scrolling, slower now that he’s found what he’s looking for, until by the time he stops the name _sai_ is clearly framed on the computer screen for the whole of the audience clustered around him as well as his own too-clear gaze. “He’s there.”

There’s a murmur through the crowd, a shuffle of feet as people vie for a better angle on the screen, as a few push in hard against the back of the chair where Akira is sitting. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t look back for so much as a glimpse of even Ogata’s face. His ears are starting to hum, that strange high-pressure sensation that sets over him like the ocean closing over his head every time he faces Hikaru, and for a moment all he can do is gaze at the letters on the screen before him, the black of the name as captivating as if it might blossom into a rainbow just for his attention to the person he knows absolutely as Shindou Hikaru. His vision narrows, his focus giving over the distraction of his environment as it might during the span of an intense match over a _goban_ , and it’s then that the screen flickers with illumination and there’s a gasp from behind him.

Akira is so distracted that he thinks, for a moment, that his hazy fantasy has come true, that the connection printed into the shadows of almost-color in his vision has laid itself open across the computer screen for the cluster of men and women around him to see. Then he blinks, and his attention swings back to the present, and he sees: not color, not vivid blues and reds like he has heard of but never seen, but a white text box, displayed across the screen in front of him with an array of text within it. It’s a relief, for a moment, to have something so mundane before him; then Akira reads the words within, and shock washes out over him as if it has only gained force via its brief delay.

“Sai...sent a challenge.”

The crowd is awash in murmurs, now, thrumming within itself with shock at this entirely unprecedented action, at this wholly new behavior from a presumed unknown. But Akira looks at his username -- his first name, typed into the same clear declaration that _sai_ forms on the list of players -- and he’s sure he can see the explanation for this seeming anomaly as surely as the shifting of washed-out vibrance in the suit jackets and ties of the crowd behind him.

He accepts. There is nothing else he can do: the pressure of the crowd is a palpable thing, it bears down against him as if the dozens of stares over his shoulder are all simultaneously offering to take his position in front of the computer screen. But the invitation wasn’t issued to them, and Akira knows why, and when black’s first move flashes into clarity on the screen before him Akira can feel awareness run down the whole of his spine like a fingertip trailing across his skin.

“17-4.” The words aren’t for the benefit of the crowd around him; they’re so soft Akira thinks it unlikely that anyone other than perhaps Ogata catches the sound of them at all. They’re for himself, a tether to hold him to this moment, to this present reality against the dragging force of the past rising up to shadow his vision with the immediate weight of all his ghosts. His vision is fading, color leeching away from his sight to throw him back to monochrome, to staring wide-eyed at the comfortable span of the _goban_ made something strange and foreign by the movement of a boy who holds his play pieces like a novice and plays like the greatest professional Akira has ever known. Akira’s heart is racing, his vision blurring, his thoughts wavering; and then Ogata shifts in his periphery, a flicker of light highlights the pale of his suit, and it’s the shading of color there that pulls Akira back to the present, back into himself. His world was simpler, then, clear lines of black and white and shadings of grey; but he’s different, now, time has changed him as surely as Hikaru’s play has altered his vision, and this isn’t that game. This is a conversation, the opening words of a dialogue instead of the first salvo of an all-out war; and Akira draws a breath, and takes his cue to answer in kind.

He knows what the moves will be. They come quickly, blossoming into visibility on the screen in front of him as if he’s calling them into being, each one a perfect replica of that game he played all that time ago, that match that has so haunted his sleeping dreams and waking sight. Any doubt Akira still had is gone, now, stripped away from him by the impossibility of his opponent being any other than that one person who has been such an inspiration to him, such a disappointment to him, so much to him no matter how Akira tries to hide from their connection. Akira plays through his responses as if by rote, staring at the screen as if the shape of that well-remembered game is laying itself through his memory instead of his intent; and at the corner of his eye he can see the shading on Ogata’s jacket darkening, can see the shadows of the other’s hair lightening into greater and greater color with every move he plays.

“It can’t be,” Akira breathes; but it is, he can see it everywhere he looks, as color expands out to saturate the details of his existence with each move of the game before him. Even the board isn’t the reprieve it usually is; the cursor for his most recent move is rising to vivid intensity from the pale circle of his white piece, deepening into a saturated color that pulls Akira’s eye as if a warning of danger. The crowd is talking, speaking in low, startled voices about the flow of the game, the pattern of the play that Akira has seen behind his eyelids until it is etched into the very core of his identity; but Akira is staring at the screen in front of him, heart pounding in his chest as color seeps slow into his vision to saturate reality with its true hue.

“Akira-kun?” That’s from Ogata next to him; whatever expression is on Akira’s face, it’s enough to tip off someone who knows him better than most of the strangers around him, at least. Even then Akira can’t compose himself, even knowing that his wide eyes must be a giveaway for the thunder of his heart; he goes on staring at the screen in front of him as the link to his soulmate prints itself to clarity even over the distance of an Internet connection.

“It can’t be,” he says again; but it is, all his denial does as much good now as it did before when he was providing a rote answer to Ogata’s inquiries. There is no question as to the identity of the player calling himself _sai_ on the Internet; and there is no question who he is to Akira, who he has always been to Akira, no matter how clumsy or disappointing or overwhelming his play. Akira draws in a deep breath, filling the span of his lungs before he lets it out in a deliberate sigh; and he draws the cursor across the screen to take the next move, the next statement in the conversation he knows as well as he knows his own name.

And he gets a different answer in return. There is no warning, no indication that something has changed; one moment Akira is moving through the motions of a rehearsed game, reliving what once was trauma, what now feels like comfort, and the next he’s thrown into uncertainty as a wholly unexpected move appears on the screen in front of him. He rocks back in his chair, as startled as if by the impact of a slap across his face, and his vision flickers for a heartbeat, illuminating everything around him with sudden, overwhelming color. It’s as if his surprise has made space for illumination to sweep in, as if a dam has broken to surge vibrant life into his world; and Akira reaches for the touchpad, and clicks the button to _Resign_ before anyone can stop him.

There’s a breath of silence as shock rolls out over the crowd around him. Then, loud atop the sudden murmur of protest: “Akira-kun! Why did you resign?” as all the eyes that had been watching the game turn to pin Akira in place with as much judgment as if it were their own matches that were so abruptly cut off.

Akira pushes back from the edge of the table so he can get to his feet, can turn away from the threat of that computer screen and out to the accusing stares of the crowd around him. It’s easier to face them, easier to think without that username in front of his eyes; with his attention turned out on everyone and no one at once he can find the words of an excuse, a polite fiction enough to explain his sudden action without giving up the shading of his secret.

“If we continue to play it’ll disrupt the tournament.” His voice is calm, his words close enough to truth to pass for such; the fact of his heart pounding under his shirt is his own, unknown to any of those eyes watching him with such intensity, even Ogata’s. Akira draws a careful breath to steady himself before he turns back to reclaim his seat. “I’ll request a rematch on a different day.”

The words come easy to his fingertips, spreading themselves across the screen before him as his hands move with deliberate focus. It’s easier when there’s not the span of a Go board in front of him, as if somehow the saturation of Akira’s ever-improving vision is tied to the pattern of the stones laid into the dialogue that is always so confusing when Hikaru is involved, however he is involved. This is safe, a fallback to the simplicity of distant politeness, and Akira composes his message with no more hesitation than the excuse he invented on behalf of the group around him.

It takes some time for the response. Akira can hear the crowd murmuring, commentary on the game or surprise at _sai_ ’s unprecedented behavior, he doesn’t focus on the details and doesn’t care. They see a complete unknown coming out of his intriguing secrecy to seek out a game with Touya Akira for no reason at all; but Akira knows, is as sure as his opponent must be, after that sequence of moves that served as a code for themselves to identify each other as surely as the flicker of expanding color that seeped itself behind Akira’s lashes. The response is a matter of time, if one measured by the overfast thrum of his heart in his chest, and then the screen flickers, and the text: _This Sunday, 10am_ appears before him.

Akira doesn’t listen to the voices behind him, to the gasps of surprise and disappointment and disbelief. He’s reaching for the keys of the computer instead, setting his fingers against the plastic so he can offer back acceptance as quickly as his fingers can move.

There’s a sound of disgust from next to him, a scoffing sound of disbelief as he sends the message. “You’ll accept it?” Akira doesn’t bother answering, doesn’t even turn to meet the _insei_ ’s horrified stare at him. The pro exams are important, something he has been looking forward to for almost the whole of his life; but the mystery before him is something greater, something tied to his own identity by whatever god of fate steals color from children’s eyes to give them a glimpse of their future in someone else’s.

Akira doesn’t know what is awaiting him in the years to come, doesn’t know what he may be doing with his life a decade from now; but Shindou Hikaru is a part of it, no matter what it is, and with newfound color flickering at the corners of his vision Akira is looking forward to someday seeing him clearly at last.


	4. Saturate

Akira doesn’t play against Hikaru for years, after that. He has a path of his own to walk, a trajectory for the life he has chosen for himself, and all the flickering color that has laid itself to a tantalizing haze over his vision isn’t going to sway him. He refuses to slow his forward progress, refuses to pause and look back for the boy who brought that first suggestion of color into his eyes, the person who has clarified his position as Akira’s rival as surely as he has stained Akira’s gaze with the tints of hue over the shadows that were his life before. But Akira doesn’t need color to play Go, and he knows what life he intends to lead for himself, and he goes on leading it, leaving Shindou Hikaru to fate and his own will to follow.

He does. Akira doesn’t play against Hikaru again, doesn’t seek out any of the possible routes by which they might tumble into a match against each other; but he hears about him, in occasional murmurs at first and then building rumor, as more and more voices in Akira’s own circles shape themselves to the other’s name. Hikaru keeps playing, finding his way along those same paths that Akira laid out for himself long years hence; and Akira keeps his gaze on the _goban_ before him, and keeps his mind on his own technique and his ever-improving skills, and he waits for Hikaru to catch up to him.

It’s a simple thing, when it happens. Akira feels vaguely that the moment should come with cameras and crowds, with reporters and some part of the audience that has followed so much of he and Hikaru’s independent paths. But it’s in a large room, in the end, patterned with _goban_ and cushions enough to accommodate the dozens who will be playing around them, and Akira and Hikaru are no more than another pair among them. It’s almost a relief, Akira thinks as he stands in front of the bulletin board that tells him which of these paired seats will be theirs; this will be their own moment, unrecorded and unnoticed by any but themselves, the way it should be, the way so little of Akira’s life has been so far. He stares at the board longer than he needs to, his attention wandering away from the words in front of him and backwards in time, out into the vibrancy of the world still waiting for him, until it’s Hikaru’s voice that finally returns him to himself.

“Touya.” His voice is lower than Akira remembers it, gentler without the tension of hurt that was there the last time they faced each other over a physical _goban_ , with the crowd of a tournament to watch their moves. “We’re finally playing.”

Akira turns away from the board to look at Hikaru. Hikaru is turned in to face him, his shoulders set and eyes wide as he looks at Akira; there is a strength to his jaw that wasn’t there before, a certainty at the line of his mouth that Akira has never had occasion to see in person. His sweater hood carries a darker shading than the vivid bright of the rest of it, that yellow that he has always favored the whole that Akira has known him, that stood out like sunlight to Akira’s eyes even after their first match. By now Akira thinks he can see the match between Hikaru’s bleached-out hair and the front of his sweater, can name them one and the same with a certainty he has never been master of, before.

He says none of this. Instead he meets Hikaru’s gaze, fixing and holding the other’s attention with his own as his heart beats steady-hard in his chest, as adrenaline glows warm under his skin. “I haven’t played you since the third board match in the Go club,” he says; not a perfect truth but not otherwise, either, with their Internet match cut short by his resignation and the whole more a conversation than a true competition. “It’s been two years and four months.”

Hikaru’s lashes dip over a blink. “It’s been that long?”

“Yeah,” Akira says. “It was a long time.” He turns away from Hikaru before him to pace out towards the space of their _goban_ set up near the center of the room. His gaze keeps drawing to details in the other’s face, fragments of color at his clothes or eyes or skin, and Akira can feel the pull of the simple monochrome of the game drawing him like a magnet, offering the comfort of familiarity and a relief for tension carried so long he can hardly bear even the thought of easing it, now. He craves the smooth shades under his fingers, black and white unchanging and pristine, and more than that he craves what Hikaru’s Go always gives him, what he has gone without for so long it feels almost an illusion, that saturated color filling his gaze and granting texture and depth to the world he has lived in so long.

Hikaru follows him across the floor, trailing Akira like he feels that magnetism in himself as well, whether he speaks to it or not. “I looked at your match against Master Zama in Weekly Go. It was close. You played a good game.” Akira comes around one side of the _goban_ to fold to his knees with careful intent; across from him Hikaru mirrors his actions with a fluidity to the motion that speaks to long months of practice to make the simple act of kneeling _seiza_ as natural as the brace of a Go stone between two outstretched fingers. “But he kept the lead from the early game all the way to the end.”

“He is a former Ouza,” Akira says without heat on his voice. “I didn’t expect to beat him on my first try.” He’s looking down at the _goban_ , tracing the smooth black lines before him with his gaze; in his mind a dozen games are blossoming, a hundred, a thousand thousand possibilities for this match to come. He’s certain Hikaru will surprise him all the same. “But in the next match I’ll have improved too.”

“I saw how good you are from your matches against Master Zama and Mr. Hagiwara.” Hikaru’s voice is soft, a murmur more than a shout; Akira thinks it might carry the more force for how gentle his volume is. “Today it’s my turn to show you how good I am.” When Akira looks up Hikaru is staring right at him, his chin lifted and gaze fixed full on Akira across the board rather than on the canvas where they will paint their match. His eyes are steady, his gaze unflinching; looking into his eyes Akira can hardly see the history of the boy who sat across from him at the Go tournament two years ago with tears in his eyes and pain at the set of his jaw. “I didn’t waste the last two years and four months either.”

They gaze at each other for a long moment. The board is waiting, the rest of their lives ready to unfold before them in the click of stones against a _goban_ and the dance of strategy and countermoves that will surely make up the structure of this game; but for a breath there is just them, set gazes looking back at each other from across the board waiting to grant the final clarity of color to their vision. Akira fixes details in his mind: the pale of Hikaru’s yellow-streaked hair, the shadows of his eyes, the tinge of almost-color at his mouth and the sweep of his sweater hood, all of it as unchanging as Akira’s sight has been for these last years; and finally there’s the sound of the buzzer to announce the beginning of the game, and Akira reaches for his pieces with a feeling that can only be fate thrumming in the grip of his fingers.

Akira doesn’t see the rest of the room, doesn’t look to the other players that filed in to their own positions sometime after he and Hikaru sat down. They’re not important; even the pounding of his heart is far distant, an oddity to be noted rather than something to be fought back or overruled. His world is no wider than the _goban_ before him, no more than the span of the game his fingers and Hikaru’s lay before down; his speed is an impatience of enthusiasm more than of nerves, an anxiety to see the conclusion more than a fear of what may be waiting.

Hikaru plays well. Akira knew he would; he hasn’t been playing Hikaru himself but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been keeping track of the other’s movements, of the decisions and pitfalls and triumphs that have marked out Hikaru’s path to this place, this time, finally kneeling across the board from Akira himself once more. His skill has been polished, honed by practice and training to a razor’s edge; but there is more there, too, until Akira thinks he would know these moves as Hikaru’s even if he were playing with his eyes shut to everything but the simplicity of the _goban_. Hikaru is strong, as strong in his potential as Akira himself; and then there’s the _click_ of a stone, and Akira can feel his breath catch, can feel his vision opening up to greater depths with just that one move. It’s as if he’s seeing the shading of color rising to his eyes with the addition of that one stone, that single move at Hikaru’s fingertips; as if the connection that has flickered in and out between them all this time is finally laying itself clear, sweeping away the shadows that have plagued them as surely as they have haunted Akira’s vision. Akira’s heart thunders, his vision flickers; and he moves, urging them forward, urging for more, ecstatic and undone and riveted where he sits by the need to see this through to the end at last.

They are both breathless by the end of the game. Akira has come out of Go matches with his hair damp with sweat before, with his hands trembling with the exertion of the battle just waged; he has never had a game like this, where the click of every stone at the board surged sensation through him as if the pieces were touching against his own bare skin, as if it’s his body they are playing on rather than the smooth of a _goban_. And there is the beauty of it, the strategy elevated to such an art that every move is more the forming of a masterpiece between them than the parries and attacks of a battle. Akira craves the conclusion, the finale of a symphony so rapturous it will surely illuminate his vision to blinded white; and when the words of resignation are offered to the span of pieces before them Akira has to shut his eyes, for a heartbeat, just to let the weight of the moment settle into him. There is a pause, a beat of time for Akira to feel the heat at his cheeks, for him to work over a breath of air that strains on the exertion in his chest; and then he lifts his head and opens his eyes to see.

Hikaru is sitting across the _goban_ from him, still folded into that perfect _seiza_ on his own cushion. He’s looking at the board when Akira lifts his head, his gaze fixed on the pieces before them, but he moves as quickly as Akira does, his eyes coming up to hold the other’s as rapidly as Akira looks at him. His eyes are wide, his lashes dark around the color of them; there’s no trace of surprise as he looks back at Akira, any more than Akira thinks there can be space for any shock in his own expression, even as he drinks in the spectacular array of color now offered up for him. He had hoped for this, had craved the layers of saturation that imagination painted for him from the half-greys of his life since meeting Hikaru, since he knew how to look for the suggestion of color in the world around him; but he hadn’t expected the depth and richness that hits him now, that has been waiting for him unseen all this time. The crowd around them has become artistry, a blend of color and light and shading spilling over every pair of shoulders, every give of a cushion; there are details Akira has never seen before in one man’s tie, in the display of the vending machine in the hallway, in the mundanity of the striped sweater drawn over his own shoulders. Everything ordinary is made new, vibrant and breathtaking by the clarity of his vision; how much more stunning, then, is Hikaru himself.

Hikaru is illuminated, all but glowing with light. His sweater isn’t just the pale shadow it seemed when Akira first looked at him; it is an explosion of color, saturated to a yellow like Akira has never seen before, a color Akira hadn’t known existed. The hood is vivid too, a soft blue so gentle in its shade that it seems to draw Akira’s fingers forward on the curiosity of contact; even the hue of Hikaru’s skin is richer, as Akira’s finally full vision finds the red flush of exertion across his cheeks, finds the soft heat of blood warm at his mouth. His bleached hair isn’t a match for his sweater after all; it’s paler, softer, more like sunlight settling into the strands of hair framing his face, and when he looks up to meet Akira’s gaze his eyes are endless, dark pools of color Akira thinks he may never be tired of staring into. They look at each other for a long moment, staring at the other as if they are seeing each other now for the first time -- as in many ways they are, Akira supposes. Finally Hikaru’s lashes dip, and his mouth curves up, and when he huffs a breath his laugh comes with color in his eyes, a lightening towards delight that Akira can see with a detail he has never found before.

“There’s green in your eyes,” Hikaru says, blurting the words with something of his old haste, a little too loud and a little too fast. “I always thought they were entirely dark but there’s some color there, underneath, like in your hair.” Hikaru leans forward over the _goban_ , his hand coming up to skim against the fall of Akira’s hair against his cheek; Akira’s skin shivers with heat enough that he’s sure Hikaru must be able to see the pink flushing over his face as the other’s hand slides away to make space for Hikaru’s intent stare again. Hikaru blinks again, his attention skipping from one of Akira’s eyes to the other, before he pulls back from his intensity to meet the other’s gaze with a sheepish smile. “I never saw it, before.”

Akira has never seen as clearly as he does right now, has never before set eyes on the surging color that is filling the world around him with light and texture and intensity he hadn’t even guessed could exist. He wants to see everything, wants to fill in the outlines he’s been living in with the true form of his own life, with the reality of the things and people and places around him. Even so, even with the whole of the world awaiting the focus of his clear-eyed gaze, there’s nothing and no one he wants to see more than that smile he’s spent so long waiting for.


End file.
